


i'll teach you to love

by realmsoffreedom



Series: oneshots [2]
Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Angst, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-03
Updated: 2019-10-03
Packaged: 2020-11-22 19:36:45
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,218
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20879573
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/realmsoffreedom/pseuds/realmsoffreedom
Summary: “I’m telling you you’re being ridiculous, Arthur,” Merlin replies. “Listen to yourself. This isn’t fair.”“What isn’t? The part where a guy gave you his number while I was sitting right there, or the fact that you’re calling him cute now? Because both are pretty fucked up, if you ask me.”





	i'll teach you to love

**Author's Note:**

> so idk if anyone remembers but I mentioned this fic in the author's notes of the last one I posted, and I couldn't let go of the idea, so here it is. I meant to post a few days ago, but college is really kicking my ass lmao
> 
> mild trigger warnings for mentions of self-harm and alcohol abuse, but there is nothing graphic or descriptive
> 
> enjoy! (and please leave me some comments letting me know what you thought; external validation means way more to me than it probably should honestly)

“Have I _ever_,” Merlin forces out, words chopping off at the end. They’re jagged, with sharp edges that dig into Arthur’s stomach with each new sound, “given you a reason to think I want to be with someone else?”

“Merlin-” He tries. His chest isn’t on fire anymore. The dust finally feels like it’s settled. But Merlin’s is just beginning, fragments building upon themselves and stirring up the sirocco faster than he knows how to diffuse it. 

“I can’t keep doing this with you, Arthur.” Merlin grabs a dishtowel off his kitchen table and starts to twist the ends in opposite directions, white-knuckling the fabric as he does so. He exhales, heavy and loud, and shakes his head, “I can’t keep pretending this is okay.”

“Don’t fucking _psychoanalyze_ me,” Arthur snaps. “Your PhD needs to stay the hell out of our relationship.”

He feels the resurgence of anger, white and hot, a curl that extends into his belly and stokes the dying flame. Every word out of Merlin’s mouth feels like a new match, a new source of fuel. It hurts it’s on fire it’s burning _why won’t he listen why does he do this every time why doesn’t he fucking get it_-

“Then stop finding stupid reasons to be mad at me!” Merlin yells back. “I didn’t fucking cheat on you!”

“Yeah, sure, that guy at the restaurant seemed pretty convinced,” he mutters. “I saw him write his number down on the receipt. He definitely wants you to call him so you guys can get together as _just friends_.”

He can’t stop thinking about it. Blond hair and green eyes that locked onto Merlin from first glance and remained there the rest of the night, side-eyes and smirks and hands that traveled far past Merlin’s shoulders, fingers that rested at the small of his back long enough to leave their traces, whispers of touch to remind him of what he _could_ have, _long nights and summer air and the affection of a thousand, stars and sparkles that blend into a blanket of bliss_. More, better, beyond the confines of his current relationship, bypassing the breadth of insecurity, damning any chance of confrontation.

“I’m not going to use it.” Merlin’s voice is lower, too, now, infused with a quiet sort of anger that slipped into the room unnoticed. It’s thick, omnipotent with its presence, sticky as it drapes itself over everything. “A cute guy gives me his number, doesn’t mean I’m _absolutely_ going to call him. He made an offer, doesn’t mean I’m gonna take him up on it.”

Arthur’s heart sinks. He feels it, the cold and hot, flashes of frigidity that intertwine in the flames as they wash down his back. “Oh, so he was _cute_?”

Merlin whips his head around, eyes wide. “You- did you not hear everything I said after that?” 

“Why were you looking at him?” Arthur demands. “Why were you even _thinking_ about how cute someone _else_ was?”

Merlin lifts his hands, palms facing outward. “Let me get this straight,” he says, measured and unnaturally calm, “because I’m with you…I’m not allowed to find anyone else attractive? I need your _permission_ to feel a normal, _human_, emotion?”

“Are you telling me you like him?” It’s too cold. He feels like he’s about to float away. This conversation doesn’t feel real. It’s like a fever-dream, dialed up in its intensity from the fury of illness, taking instances to extremes in seconds. 

“I’m telling you you’re being ridiculous, Arthur,” Merlin replies. “Listen to yourself. This isn’t fair.”

“What isn’t? The part where a guy gave you his number while I was sitting right there, or the fact that you’re calling him cute now? Because both are pretty fucked up, if you ask me.” 

“You really don’t trust me, do you?” Merlin mutters. “After everything, every reason I’ve given you to believe I’m in this, forever, you still can’t get over yourself and trust that.”

“How am I supposed to trust someone who _flirts_ with anyone who gives him a second glance?” The words escape before he can stop them filter them, _make it not sound like Merlin’s an unfaithful whore, for fuck’s sakes_. He watches Merlin’s face, the glare that seems to freeze and remain motionless for a good few seconds before it melts away. 

Merlin’s eyes widen and he bites down on his lip, and now, if any part of him was unsure before, Arthur knows he’s gone too far. 

But the words are there, hanging in the air like knives, double agents that embody the entirety of Arthur’s anger and expel it backward. Red and hot and burning into his skin, singeing flesh and scorching nerves, _I shouldn’t have I didn’t mean to it wasn’t supposed to come out like that no no no_-

“Do you- do you really believe that?” Merlin is soft, and small, and the cracks in his voice make Arthur want to run. To go back in time and stitch his own mouth shut. _This isn’t happening. It’s a dream. You need to wake up_. “Do you really think I’m that awful?”

He wants to shake his head. Confirm the negative – _I’m sorry. I wasn’t thinking. I didn’t mean that, swear on my life_ – but what breaks free instead is a laugh. It’s bitter. Lacking every trace of mirth, as though the sound was forcibly torn from his chest. “What about Gwaine?”

“What _about_ Gwaine?” Merlin asks, desperate now. 

“Don’t make me say it.”

“Say what? I can’t have friends now?” Merlin shoots back. “They can’t tell me I look good? ‘Sorry, you can’t look at me, my boyfriend doesn’t allow it’?” He pauses, takes an audible breath, and drops his voice back down to normal, “Arthur, it’s _Gwaine_-”

“You don’t say no,” Arthur says. The words are thick. Clumsy. They feel too big for his tongue, tripping over themselves in a tangle of threads, more of a garble than anything coherent. He keeps his eyes trained on the table, concentrates his vision on a mark that’s been scratched into the wood. He doesn’t want to – _can’t_ – look up. “And he does far more than just tell you that you look nice; ‘your arse looks amazing in those jeans, Merls’, ‘that haircut is turning me on so much right now’, ‘You’re so damn _fuckable_ in that outfit!’” “He puts his hands all over you, Merlin, and you let him. You don’t stop it. You don’t tell him no.”

“Arthur-” Merlin tries, interrupts once more.

“You don’t flirt back, but you sure as hell don’t stop him.”

He white-knuckles the edge of the island and breathes, forcing the unrelenting air in. It moves through him jaggedly, does nothing to quench the thirst of the dying weeds in his lungs. His chest is heaving. The room feels like it’s spinning, spurting tinges of red into his field of sight as it whisks his body around in circles. It’s red and white and hot, all at the same time, punctuated by periods of black that permeate the previously pristine page.

“Jealousy isn’t cute on you,” Merlin mutters. The glare he gives him makes Arthur want to disintegrate. Dark eyes and narrowed brows that stab at his chest and poke holes in what feels left of his ribcage. Everything hurts. Every new word is a fragment of bone falling to its ruin.

“My research is at a stalemate, my sister’s halfway across the country and hasn’t bothered to call in weeks, and my father still isn’t speaking to me.” _Stop overreacting_. “Jealousy is all I have right now.”

He needs to leave. He needs to get out of here. 

He foregoes his jacket entirely as he heads for the door, only snatches his keys and toes on his shoes, almost tripping over himself in haste.

He can still hear Merlin calling after him when the door slams shut. 

…

The bar is colder than he remembers.

But, usually, it doesn’t happen like this. Usually, he’s on the dance floor, sufficiently more smashed, instead of stewing in solitude. 

And Merlin’s hands curl backward around his neck and he presses his arse into Arthur’s crotch as they dance, as Arthur tries, far past the point of inebriation, to keep hold of his boyfriend. Merlin, surprisingly, becomes infinitely more noodle-like when he’s drunk, wiggling in every direction and trying to get under the lights with his every movement.

_I didn’t put glitter on my face for nothin’, Arthur! I wanna sparkle!_

And sparkle he does, the highlighter making his cheekbones glisten under the warm flush of the disco lights. Arthur watches him apply it every time they go out, glittery powder on his cheeks and eyelids, duo chrome and dazzling. 

Usually, a night at the bar – club – feels like freedom, flares with the pure essence of infinity. Responsibility is fleeting and the world around him drifts away. The cloud he’s floating on is here to stay, to soak up every ray of these few hours and allow him the ability to leave duty at the door, park prior engagements and dislodge obligations. It’s just him and Merlin and the ambiance of autonomy, _you are here and you are alive and the world is free, if only tonight_. 

Usually, his heart doesn’t feel paper-thin and pummeled, worn in from prior problematic propriety. There isn’t an ever present tightness in his chest, a ball of nerves and anxieties, a reminder of his inevitable fragility, the part of him he can’t control, a switch that flips and aches and hurts him all the same, undeterred by his any efforts to press it into permanent position. 

This bar is too cold and the seat is making his arse feel sore and he genuinely can’t remember the last time he sat down here, by himself, for longer than a couple minutes, and ordered a drink. He doesn’t come to this bar alone. When it’s not dancing with Merlin, it’s drinks and darts with Leon and Lance, or dinner with Morgana, although the former is decidedly his favorite of the bunch. 

Usually, it’s different. 

“I was wondering when this day would finally come, princess.”

He swallows. The lump in his throat returns, tripling its size in seconds. 

“Get away from me,” he mutters. He stirs his drink and draws in a breath, long and heavy. _You’re fine. Relax_.

“Sorry, no can do.” The seat creaks under Gwaine’s weight. He leans forward and rests his elbows on the bar. Arthur catches his smirk, out of the corner of his eye. “You’ve got my best mate a bit too torn up for that.”

“Of course he came to you.” The realization isn’t unfamiliar, but it still clocks in as a contusion, weighs him down with its ardor. Of course Merlin went to Gwaine. 

_You’re being ridiculous. _

_I can’t keep doing this with you. _

_I can’t keep pretending this is okay_.

“He said he doesn’t want to pick between us, but he will, if he has to. And, honestly? I’ll bet you everything that it won’t be me. You don’t havta believe me, but…” Gwaine shakes his head. “That’s how much he cares, Arthur. That’s how much he loves you.” 

Arthur scoffs. “He’s sure gotta funny way of showing it.”

_i can’t keep pretending this is okay-_

“You gotta funny way of trustin’ ‘im.” Gwaine echoes. “It’s not his fault you got fucked over. And he doesn’t deserve to feel like he’s gotta make up for what other shitty people did.”

“Can I just have a coke, mate?” Gwaine glances up at the expectant bartender with a small smile. Arthur looks at him then, puzzled. “Thanks.”

Arthur’s known Gwaine for a long time. 

He’s known him blackout drunk an hour into the party, puking his guts up over and over the next morning, and wondering if 2pm was too early to start having from the bottle again. He’s slept in an empty bed far too many times for his liking, endured ‘Gwaine got himself wasted and needs someone to be there so he doesn’t choke on his vomit and die’ aplenty. He’s known drunk Gwaine and buzzed Gwaine and tipsy Gwaine, sober Gwaine only making brief appearances and interjecting occasionally, each instance further than its predecessor. 

He’s never known Gwaine _not_ to order alcohol, especially being that they’re currently sitting in a bar. 

“My old man…he got this way of makin’ ya feel like shit, you know? Without even tryin’. All he’s gotta do is look at me, and I’m left feeling like there’s no point.” Gwaine sips his coke and meets Arthur’s eyes. “He’s never believed in me. And, like, I kinda get it, but…s’not somethin’ you’re supposed to tell your kid to his face, is it?”

“We’re supposed to be more,” Arthur says quietly. He addresses his next words to the glass of beer in front of him, “make ‘em feel better about pausing work to even have kids, I guess.”

“Dunno ‘bout you, but the way I see it, that’s crap. Kids ain’t buckets you can fill with all your hopes and dreams.”

“Gonna overflow at some point,” Arthur agrees. He lifts the beer to his lips with a sigh. “My father, he- I’m an orthopedic surgeon, and to this day, he’s on my ass about not following in his footsteps and doing cardiothoracic.”

“Wait, what?” Arthur can feel Gwaine’s eyes on him. He keeps his head down, as the other’s voice rises with every new word, “he- lemme get this straight. You did college, med school, research, surgery training, and he’s just bitter because you picked bones ‘stead of hearts?”

“Pretty much.”

“Christ, mate. And I thought my dad was asking for too much.”

Arthur shrugs. “It’s relative. When I was doing my residency, finally getting a paycheck, y’know? That was the first job I’ve ever had. I was 26.”

Gwaine freezes. His hand stops in mid air, halfway to his glass. “You- what? He didn’t make you-”

“Nope. He paid for everything. Always had the money, and, well, if I didn’t have any “distractions”,” Arthur pauses to make the air quotes. “He thought I’d do better in school.”

“He’s probably right, but jesus fuckin’ _christ_, mate, that’s…”

“Privileged as fuck?” Arthur quips, tossing back the last of his beer. He hears another glass slide across the bar and shoots the bartender a small smile, pushing his empty glass over to her. “You don’t havta tell me twice. This isn’t my usual go-to, for small talk.”

“And m’not your usual go-to, for company?” Gwaine offers, with a smile. At Arthur’s shrug, he chuckles, “drop the act, mate. I know you don’t like me.”

“Oh, really? What gave you that idea?” 

_Not liking someone and wishing they wouldn’t flirt with your boyfriend are two different things_, Arthur thinks. He wishes he didn’t feel so bad about it. But Merlin’s probably going to leave him and end up with Gwaine again, and he doesn’t know if he’ll be able to handle that. He doesn’t want to think about it, picture Gwaine’s hands on Merlin’s ass or his tongue shoved down his throat, imagine them grinding on the dance floor or having sex in Merlin’s office, _Gwaine, please, fuck, you’re so much better than Arthur_…

The thought sends Arthur’s stomach rolling. He has to stop the hand that unconsciously rises to cover his mouth. 

“Merlin and I fucked,” Gwaine says, finally. “Once. Way before he even knew you existed. But yeah, we did. Not gonna lie and say we didn’t. We tried. It didn’t work.”

“You had a relationship?”

“We had _sex_,” Gwaine deadpans. “We didn’t even get ta the relationship. Knew it wouldn’t last.”

“But you wanted it to,” Arthur manages. The words feel too thick around his tongue. Clumsy. They stumble out into the world before they’ve been fully developed, and he has to rush to build coherency around them. “Right?”

“It was years ago, Arthur. It’s over.”

“You compliment his _ass_,” Arthur forces out. His face is hot. Sweat is dripping down his back. He tries to take a breath in, but the air catches in his throat and sends sparks shooting down into his chest. “And you run your hands through his hair and you tell him he looks _fuckable_, Gwaine. You tell my _boyfriend_ how fuckable he looks. You want him.”

Gwaine is quiet for a very long time. 

Arthur allows the pent up tension to wash over him, closes his eyes and sinks into the strain. His heart is racing. The ache has moved behind his eyes and blossomed, expanded into a full balloon that’s pressing against his skull, one wrong move away from popping. 

This may be the worst idea, the most destructive series of events he’s catapulted himself into. The reality is stark, blanched in its fury, betraying far more than anything achromatic. 

This isn’t an imagined consciousness that operates only inside his head, malleable and motionless, a setting that’s separate, amongst the action that’s allowed to actualize. These aren’t his puppets and this isn’t his play and there is no caveat permitting the production to play out in his preference. He’s the defenseless victim of circumstance, prisoner to rationale he can only _hope_, will function in his favor. 

But it very well couldn’t. Gwaine – quite easily, to Arthur’s sheer _horror_ – could turn Merlin against him, spin a tale of blame and shame and play the game well enough, in retrospect, to sink everything. Arthur’s relationship and his social life and every single thing that doesn’t find its roots in Uther, the hospital, and _Pendragon Practices_.

Everything Arthur is, everything he’s built in _spite_ of the implications of the Pendragon name, are potentially at stake here.

And he is fucked.

“Of course I want him, Arthur.” Gwaine exhales, long and heavy, and shakes his head. “Everyone who meets Merlin wants him at some point. He’s that incredible. But he chose you. He wants you, princess. Doesn’t that count for anything?”

“I’m afraid he won’t,” Arthur mutters, only marginally regretting the words once they’ve left him. “I’m afraid, no-” He swallows. “I’m fucking _terrified_, that one day, he’ll take a real look at me and this thing we’re doing, and decide he’s out.” _And wonder how he even stayed this long_, he adds in his head. His entire body is vibrating. The room is too hot and the world is tilting at its edges. It’s sending his existence spinning. He’s spinning out of control. 

“Merlin wouldn’t do that to you.”

“How do you know?”

Gwaine shrugs. “He didn’t do it ta me. God knows he fuckin’ should’ve.”

“What?”

“I’m an alcoholic.” Gwaine drops his gaze to his glass and rubs his thumb against the side. He addresses his next words to the bar as well, shaky-voiced and fidgety. His hands flitter from his glass, to his hair, and eventually end up intertwined in each other, fingers tangled together. “Haven’t been sober longer than a month since I was, like, seventeen.”

“I-”

“You’re lucky, y’know? Your dad cares. Even if he’s shit at showing it. He wants you to do good.” Gwaine’s voice is thick, as he plows on. He’s staring at the bar, lip pulled in between his teeth. “’Cause he knows I’m what happens if you don’t.”

Arthur stays quiet, watches as Gwaine’s eyes close for a few seconds and he braces his palms against the bar. 

“Sorry. I, uh….talking ‘bout this shit’s somethin’ I’m still not used to.”

“I get that. It’s okay.” Arthur takes the last sip of his beer and slides the glass over in the bartender’s direction.

“I drank,” Gwaine offers. He blinks rapidly. “Way too much. For way too long.”

Arthur can feel the throbbing in his chest, waves of pain that bubble right up to the surface of his skin and begin to pool together, tendrils extending outward and eclipsing everything in their path. It feels localized, but it hurts everywhere, sparks of ache that assimilate into his veins and dose themselves through his bloodstream, alongside everything else.

He has so much to say, but the words refuse to come. He doesn’t know how to structure it, what order to string syllables in that expresses the _I know exactly what you means with the that sounds awful, I’m so sorrys_, simultaneously. 

The scars on his thighs scream of all-too similar nights, shrouded in stitches that stung no matter what he did. The pain seared and it surged, swole to new heights that felt insurmountable. Rhinos were dancing all over his chest and cracking already snapped off shards into even more pieces, There was nothing he could do. The world hurt too much and it all felt – _still_, feels – like he’s burning. Singed from the inside, out. 

It’s the type of pain that is so difficult to place, like trying to hit the tiniest bull’s eye ever. He’s aimed so many times, gets closer with every shot, but he’s still just the slightest bit off. Something is out of place. The story doesn’t make sense, regardless of how hard he tries to make it so. Every time he talks about it – _tries_ to talk about it – the words come out wrong and contradict each other and he’s left feeling like that part of him has been stolen all over again. 

“-dad’s a dick. And I couldn’t deal with it, y’know?” He blinks a few times and forces himself to focus on what Gwaine is saying. “I wasn’t ‘Gwaine who loves a good pint’, anymore. I was Gwaine, with a serious alcohol addiction. And it just about killed me.”

“That’s where Merlin comes in, I guess.” He gives a rueful laugh at the end of the sentence, but Gwaine sounds about one word away from bursting into tears. Arthur isn’t sure how much he’ll be able to handle. He doesn’t know if he should stop him, in the middle of this, or let it go on. _It looks like he needs this. More than he needs to keep it together_. 

“He’s picked me up off the floor of probably every bar in this city. Gone with me ta places that scared him, ‘cause he knew I’d drink more if I was alone. Got me home and cleaned me up when I couldn’t give less of a fuck what I did ta myself.” Gwaine bites down on his lip. “He used to turn his phone on the highest volume and put it across the room, when he went ta bed, so there’d be no chance of him sleeping through someone calling him when they cut me off. And he’s never been mad at me for it. That’s the fuckin’ kicker.” 

“I force him ta come out ta places he doesn’t know, put him in situations that stress him out, make him fuckin’ drag his ass out of bed at 4am because I’m too drunk ta get myself home, and he still…still wants me around. He still hasn’t decided he’s better off.” 

Arthur watches the muscles work in Gwaine’s jaw as he swallows. He asks for a glass of water and downs the entire thing as soon as it’s slid in his direction. 

It’s a couple minutes before he looks up. The color has finally returned to his hands. “Sorry.”

Arthur shakes his head and holds up a hand. “How long have you been sober?”

“3 weeks,” Gwaine answers almost immediately. His voice gets quieter as he continues, “3 weeks, and four days.”

“That’s incredible.” He’s sure he sounds dumb. He never knows what to say, in situations like these. He doesn’t want to sound like an asshole, but he probably sounds like that anyway, not saying anything at all is probably worse than sounding like an idiot. “Probably means shit coming from me, but…that’s great, Gwaine. You should be proud of yourself.”

“I mean- I guess, it’s kinda- it’s whatever,” Gwaine mumbles. The words tumble out in a rush, faster than he most likely intended for them to. “Point is, you’ve got nothin’ ta worry about, princess. Really. You can trust him.”

Arthur sighs. “I needa talk to him, don’t I?”

“Better that let him keep believin’ you think he’s a massive whore, don’tcha think?”

Arthur winces. Thinking about it now, uprooting this version of himself and placing it an hour back in time, witnessing the battlefield their kitchen had become, feels like he was the one shot. He’s lying on the ground, bleeding, but the wound in his chest is entirely of his own doing. “I can’t believe I said that to him.”

“He knows you didn’t mean it,” Gwaine replies. “But go, tell him anyway. Because you were a dick and he didn’t deserve that.”

“Thanks, for this,” Arthur offers, at the last second. He slides off the barstool and reaches into his pocket, presses a few bills into the bartender’s hand and smiles at her mouthed ‘thank you.’ 

“And Arthur, for what it’s worth…” Gwaine trails off and shakes his head. Arthur turns back to look at him, and catches the hint of a smile. “I met someone. His name is Percival. And he’s great. Really great. So you have nothing to worry about. Officially, or whatever. And hey, when I eventually fuck that up, you’ll still have nothing ta worry ‘bout. Merlin’s yours. Promise.”

…

“Please don’t ever do that again.”

“Merlin, I-”

“I don’t care how mad you are.” Merlin’s voice is soft. Arthur steps further into the apartment and drops his keys into the bowl on their front table. “A call. A text. _Something_, so I know you’re not lying dead in a ditch somewhere. You can need space, but you can’t do that to me, Arthur. Please.”

“I’m sorry,” he manages. He doesn’t know what else to say. It feels like his body weighs 2000 pounds, like the weight of the world is balanced against his back and digging further into him with every step. He was jealous and stupid and this mess of a night is his punishment, his retribution for being a dumbass, but it’s too heavy. Everything feels too heavy. He doesn’t want to deal with it anymore. 

“I am too.” Merlin takes a step forward, and then stops where he is. 

“Do you still love me?” He doesn’t look up. He knows his voice breaks. He knows he’s about to cry, and doing everything to keep the tears in won’t hit pause on that. But he needs to know. He needs to hear Merlin say it. He needs the words, over the implication. 

“Arthur,” Merlin breathes. He keeps his eyes clenched shut and his head down, but he hears the sweep across the floor, feels the hands on his shoulders, his back, until Merlin gets to his chin and lifts it, so their eyes meet. “Yes. Absolutely, yes.” He inhales loudly, and when he speaks again, the words are thicker, “I’m so sorry I made you think I didn’t.”

“Okay.” The word catches in his throat. He swallows against the ever-forming lump and breathes out heavily. “I- …okay.”

“Arthur-”

He hears Merlin’s shoes slap against the floor, and shifts backward. “Give me a minute.”

_Breathe. You’re fine. Everything’s fine. Breathe_. He forces in a gulp of air and tries to hold it in for as long as his body will retain it, tries to allow the heat and sweat and shakiness of his limbs to fly away with the fleeting notes of air. His heart is slowing. His body is in all the right places, at every point that is willing to keep him standing for the time being. 

“Arthur,” Merlin says again, and at his nod, Arthur feels Merlin’s chest against his, feels Merlin’s arms around his back, feels their bodies come together and tangle into each other. He shifts his head into the crook of Merlin’s neck and breathes out, warming Merlin’s skin and pressing his nose against it. “No matter how mad I get, no matter how mad you get, nothing’s gonna make me stop loving you. You gotta believe that.”

“I’m trying,” he mutters. 

And he is. He really is. Trying to trust in and believe every reassurance that this is real, recognize the rhythm and commit it to memory best he can, internalized for the days he needs it reaffirmed. This is real and it’s honest and _true_ and he’s going to wake up every future morning remembering that it wasn’t a dream. It’s not a farce or a fantasy or the figments of his imagination and he has to keep telling himself that, has to remind himself to _take deep breaths and soak it all in because this is real and you’re here and the future is forever. It’s not going anywhere. This is real. _

_This is real_.

…

“I meant what I said before,” Merlin settles against the arm of the couch and tucks his legs underneath himself, eyes never leaving Arthur. “I can’t keep defending myself for things I didn’t even do, Arthur. That’s not fair.”

“I know,” Arthur mumbles. Merlin is larger than life, the embodiment of his inadequacies towering over him, and he finds himself cowering. And suddenly he’s seventeen again; trying to shrink back and make himself smaller to accommodate the weight of everything he can’t quite get right. 

“I would never cheat on you,” Merlin says quietly. “Even if I thought we were over. I would never hurt you like that.”

“It wasn’t him,” Arthur replies, face hot. “I just- every time I see you with Gwaine, every time he says that _shit_ to you, and then the waiter had to go and give you his number, and I just- I snapped.” 

He pauses to breathe again – really, he isn’t sure why he’s suddenly forgotten how to do both at the same time – and looks over at Merlin. “This isn’t just on me. Like, I get that I’m fucking awful about this shit and it sucks, but the way Gwaine talks to you is not normal.”

“I told him that,” Merlin assures him. “Told him that he’s gotta cut it out. But it’s not- it doesn’t mean anything. It never has. He’s been sayin’ it since before we got together. He’s never serious.”

“I don’t like it,” Arthur affirms again, words tight. He clenches his teeth and bites at the flames, as hot and furious as they are, and forces them back down. _Breathe. You can’t do this right now. Breathe_. 

“He said he’d back off.” Merlin’s still speaking in that tone, that stupid soft tone he uses when he’s trying to keep himself calm, but really, sounds more like he’s scolding a child. He’s parental and it’s patronizing and Arthur can feel the anger, red-hot and pulsating, in the pit of his stomach. He swallows again and tries to even out his breaths, keep his attention on that, _don’t yell at him. Don’t make this worse. Relax. Stay calm. Breathe_. “He also said he ran into you. At the bar.”

“By ‘ran into’, you mean you told him to come find me, right?” He mutters. “It wasn’t a fucking coincidence.”

Merlin holds up his hands in surrender. “I told him you stormed out and probably ended up at a bar. That didn’t mean go follow you. He did that all on his own.”

“Why tell him in the first place?”

“I was worried about you.” The words are sharp, steely calm, betraying none of the potential anger Merlin is working up toward. Arthur hates how in control he is. Merlin’s composure is effortless, rivaling the same ease that Arthur feels in working himself up to fury. It gives Merlin the upper hand in most of their arguments. Arthur consistently finds himself steeping in insufficiency. “I didn’t want you ta do something stupid.”

“I’m not a basket case.”

“You have a track record.”

“I don’t needa be babysat,” he snaps. “I’m not fragile, Merlin! Just ‘cause you saw my fucking-” He stops there, breathing out heavily. His chest is heaving. His heart is pounding. The room around them is tilting on its edges, wavering in the contortions of his vision. Everything feels so fast, so sudden, surging and climbing past the point of potency, placing him too heavy, too far, too _high_, and it needs to come down. It needs to stop. He needs to stop. 

When it eventually does stop, when he can finally plant his feet and feel the ground underneath his body, it’s different. It’s like someone’s gone in and wiped down the glass, cleared the lens of its fog and smoke and made his vision 20/20 again. He can see.

And Merlin looks so much smaller now, biting his lip and blinking rapidly. Gone are the capability and the composition and the candor he once held. Arthur knows the look. It’s the one Merlin gives when he’s trying desperately to hold it together. He’s seconds away from tears, but he can’t let anyone know that, _the stupid, self-sacrificing idiot_. 

He reaches over and grabs Merlin’s hands. “Before that happened, before that night, the last time was _years_ ago, M. I haven’t felt like doing it in years. I promise you. I’m okay.”

“Gwaine cuts himself too.”

“What?”

“His dad sucks and he sucks at dealing with it,” Merlin mutters. “Sometimes I havta run over to whatever bar he’s at and get him home safe, but other nights, when he calls me…it’s bad, Arthur. He gets really bad. And I worry. All the time.”

Arthur swallows. The stab feels genuine, as undeniable as they come, corporal, in the pain it sends splitting through him. The ache starts in his chest and stretches its roots outward, travelling up to his throat and sinking far enough to reach the pit of his stomach. “I, uh…”

“I’m not tryna make you feel bad or anything,” Merlin rushes to continue. “I just- I can’t lose either of you, and I just want you ta know- I’m not entirely useless at dealing with this sorta thing. Hell, like- I keep a bag of stuff in the bathroom cupboard, like, an emergency first-aid kit, just in case something-” He pauses with a sigh, “just- let me help, Arthur. I wanna help.”

Arthur brings his hands up to cover his face. The ache behind his eyes feels too big, pressing against his skull and stinging. The breaths catch in his throat, biting down every swallow. 

He waits a couple moments, tries to rein in the pieces of his psyche and keep them in the vicinity, before he speaks again.

“You’re wonderful, M. Goddamn wonderful. More wonderful than I probably deserve, most days.”

“I want you.” Merlin’s voice is quiet. Arthur hears the rustling of fabric, Merlin’s body moving across the couch, and then there’s a hand pressed against the back of his neck. Merlin rubs between his shoulder blades. “For all the days. Good and bad. I just need you to trust that. I want you and I want to be here and I _need_ you to trust that I mean that.”

“Fuck,” Arthur intones. 

“I didn’t mean it,” he continues hoarsely. “Any of it. I was so fucking out of line, Merlin. I’m sorry.”

“I know.”

“God, you deserve so much fucking better.” 

Merlin’s hand stills against his neck. “Look at me, Arthur.”

He uncovers his face. Merlin joins their hands and squeezes. “This is yours. _Ours_. And you don’t havta worry about it ending, okay? We’ll ride out the wave for s’long as it lets us.”

“Merlin-”

“I’m in this, for the long haul. I’m in this, and I love you, and if you can’t believe anything else, just keep rememberin’ that.”

“I love you,” Arthur echoes, breathless and shaky. 

…

There’s still a lot to talk about. 

Arthur knows that. He knows that Merlin slipping under his arm and tangling their legs together is just a bit of glue, temporarily tacky, but eventually bound to lose its adhesive. There’s a lot to talk about, and all of it sends his insides swirling, stirring the pot and starting a fire that just might never burn out. 

It’s these kinds of conversations that he dreads, these scripted out words that left his teenage self wishing to be dead, these forays into the stories of the past and revelations of old trauma that just seem to last, unwitting and ill-fitting in their insertion.

But he’s here. 

And so is Merlin. 

And it is different.

The kinds of conversations that send him spiraling, set the world on fire and burn through every layer of pretense, strip things bare and leave them there, delicate as china, for the world’s pudgy hands to have their way with. The kinds of conversations that seared into every semantic he tried to build, tried to withhold, amongst the semblance of destruction. The kinds of conversations that satiated nothing and splayed out every secret – _how are you even my son, Arthur? How is this what you’ve turned into?_ – are no more.

Because Merlin is warm hands and soft touches and places of pragmatism, preying only on the parts of him that dip just beyond the surface, allowing the structures to stay. Merlin is caresses and cuddles and the creation of something new, something unsettling in a way that only feels curative.

And he _can_ trust that.


End file.
